Touch the Wounds

Tomáš Halík, Gerald Turner

Description

In this masterfully written book, Tomáš Halík calls upon Christians to touch the wounds of the world and to rediscover their own faith by loving and healing their neighbors.

One of the most important voices in contemporary Catholicism, Tomáš Halík argues that Christians can discover the clearest vision of God not by turning away from suffering but by confronting it. Halík calls upon us to follow the apostle Thomas’s example: to see the pain, suffering, and poverty of our world and to touch those wounds with faith and action. It is those expressions of love and service, Halík reveals, that restore our hope and the courage to live, allowing true holiness to manifest itself. Only face-to-face with a wounded Christ can we lay down our armor and masks, revealing our own wounds and allowing healing to begin.

Weaving together deep theological and philosophical reflections with surprising, trenchant, and even humorous commentary on the times in which we live, Halík offers a new prescription for those lost in moments of doubt, abandonment, or suffering. Rather than demanding impossible, flawless faith, we can look through our doubt to see, touch, and confront the wounds in the hearts of our neighbors and—through that wounded humanity, which the Son of God took upon himself—see God.

Thomas believed in Christ because of what he saw. He saw wounds transformed into precious stones, he saw how pain was overcome and that suffering and death did not have the last word. So he could believe in what constitutes the core of Christian belief: a God who shows himself in Christ, in the resurrection, in love that is stronger than death. But what about those who didn’t see anything of the kind?

Thomas was followed by countless more people who did not have his healing experience, who did not see the sun rise after the night of pain, the sun whose wounds were still festering and painful. What can we offer those who did see? They are the subject of Jesus’ final Beatitude.

***

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Who is not familiar with the eight Beatitudes, the ceremonial gateway to Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount! At the end of John’s gospel in the scene of his encounter with “doubting” Thomas, Jesus adds another final Beatitude, when he says to the apostle: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Many gospel commentators maintain that the beatitudes at the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount do not describe “eight types of people”, but eight aspects of the same outlook on life of a disciple of Jesus. These are now joined by this ninth one.

Isn’t this last beatitude in fact a key to understand the previous ones (or at least some of them)? Are we not poor, mourning and thirsting for righteousness because – or at least also because – we did not see and still cannot see? And even those who are pure in heart are so far only promised that visio beatifica, (beatific vision); not even they “see” yet.

Jesus came into the world “so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” And when, after those words, the pharisees, the smug “possessors of the truth resentfully ask him, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” Jesus answers them, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.”

In the eight Beatitudes, Jesus prophetically turns our gaze from the past in which we did not see, and the present in which we still do not see, to the eschatological future of the Kingdom of God, where we will see God, where we will be filled, comforted, and receive mercy … But He does not add any further promise to the last beatitude. Does that mean those who endure the state of “not seeing” already have their reward in faith alone? Does it mean that faith alone fills this state with meaning, transforming it and conferring on it value and depth without removing the veil of mystery from sightless eyes? “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

In his encyclical Spe salvi, Pope Benedict recalls emphatically that the term elenchos (conviction) in that sentence does not mean simply the subjective opinion of the believer, but a “proof” (argumentum): “Faith is not merely a personal reaching out towards things to come that are still totally absent: it gives us something. It gives us even now something of the reality we are waiting for, and this present reality constitutes for us a ‘proof’ of the things that are still unseen. Faith draws the future into the present, so that it is no longer simply a ‘not yet’. The fact that this future exists changes the present; the present is touched by the future reality, and thus the things of the future spill over into those of the present and those of the present into those of the future.” Faith is the substance (hypostasis) of what we hope for. That means, the pope says, that “through faith, in a tentative way, or as we might say ‘in embryo’– and thus according to the ‘substance’– there are already present in us the things that are hoped for: the whole, true life. And precisely because the thing itself is already present, this presence of what is to come also creates certainty: this ‘thing’ which must come is not yet visible in the external world (it does not ‘appear’), but because of the fact that, as an initial and dynamic reality, we carry it within us, a certain perception of it has even now come into existence.”

It is important that in this major commentary, the pope places the words “proof” and “thing” in quotation marks. Proof in this context is not a proof as used in mathematics, and the natural sciences, nor even in philosophy or logic, which would not admit doubt and would definitively refute objections; the proof that we can and ought to provide “an unbelieving world”, is our “witness” the testimony of our lives. The “thing” that faith relates to has not yet become a “deed”, a fact that is evident to all – we can only enable a glimpse of it by our lives as witnesses. We have to “account for the hope” that is in us.

But how are we to do so if we ourselves are among those “who have not seen” – and are even warned not to present ourselves as those who “see” and “know”? The answer is that we are not asked to give an account of what we “see” or “think”, or what are our convictions, but of our hopes, our faith, and our love. These are what we must prove and demonstrate, so that more light may penetrate the dark recesses of the world.

Preface to the English-language Edition

The Gate of the Wounded

Without Distance

Arcanum Cordis

A Torn Veil

A Dancing God

Worshiping the Lamb

Stigmata and Forgiveness

Knocking on the Wall

Bodies

A Little Place for Truth

Veronica and the Imprint of the Face

Wounds Transformed

The Last Beatitude

Sujets

• Religion
• Christianisme
• Biblical Meditations
• Philosophie et théologie
• Philosophy
• General officer
• Theology
• Spirituality
• New Testament
• Catholic
• Christianity
• General
• Faith

Informations

• Publié par: University of Notre Dame Press
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780268204884
• Langue: English

Extrait

Advance Praise for
Touch the Wounds
“One of the most profound meditations on suffering, from a Christian perspective, that I have ever read.”
—James Martin, SJ, author of Learning to Pray
“Tomáš Halík’s Touch the Wounds is a masterfully written, personal, and at the same time critical book that brings into dialogue contemporary life experience, biblical message, mystical tradition, and modern criticism of religion, all showing how in the wounds of our world as Christians we touch the wounds of God not by turning away from suffering but by confronting it. A fascinating, challenging, and encouraging vision.”
—Cardinal Walter Kasper, president emeritus of the Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity
“What we need now is the voice of a prophet in the tradition of Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Isaiah, who were unafraid to confront hypocrisy in high places and fearless in identifying the self-inflicted wounds of a society in desperate need of a particular and urgent healing touch. That prophetic voice for our time and our world belongs to Tomáš Halík, an impressive scholar who writes with flawless grace and instinct so that truth is disclosed page after page in his latest, powerful book.”
—Doris Donnelly, editor of Sacraments and Justice

“In this deeply personal narrative, Tomáš Halík invokes the figure of Thomas, less to affirm the importance of doubt in religious life than to remind us that Christian faith passes through our wounds and through the reality of pain and suffering. As ever, Halík manages to offer a fresh and hopeful Christian message without condemning the secular world.”
—Catherine Cornille, co-author of Christian Identity between Secularity and Plurality
“Tomáš Halík’s Touch the Wounds is an elegant and profound set of meditations on the place and purpose and meaning of suffering. Halík shows that, and how, attention to suffering is attention to Jesus, and, therefore, a means of entry for Christians into the world’s healing. It is a lovely book, and an inspiring one.”
—Paul J. Griffiths, author of Regret: A Theology
“ Touch the Wounds will be a source of great insight and inspiration for seekers, drawn potentially to Christian faith, and will liberate many others from stultifying forms of false certainty. It will open others again to ecumenical exchanges that will enrich their faith. The world needs more Tomáš Halík.”
—Charles Taylor, co-author of Reconstructing Democracy
“Tomáš Halík is one of the most insightful voices in contemporary Catholicism, and his book on the wounded church and sin in the church is a turning point in the effort to make sense of the ecclesial crisis that has taken shape in the last few years: from the new phase in the abuse crisis to the pandemic.”
—Massimo Faggioli, author of Catholicism and Citizenship
Touch the Wounds
Touch the Wounds
ON SUFFERING, TRUST, AND TRANSFORMATION
TOMÁŠ HALÍK
Translated by
GERALD TURNER
UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME PRESS
Notre Dame, Indiana
University of Notre Dame Press
Notre Dame, Indiana 46556
undpress.nd.edu
Copyright © 2023 by Tomáš Halík
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022947573
ISBN: 978-0-268-20489-1 (Hardback)
ISBN: 978-0-268-20491-4 (WebPDF)
ISBN: 978-0-268-20488-4 (Epub)
This e-Book was converted from the original source file by a third-party vendor. Readers who notice any formatting, textual, or readability issues are encouraged to contact the publisher at [e-mail]
Dedicated to the memory of
MONS. VÁCLAV DVOŘÁK († July 30, 2008),
who wore shackles and endured wounds for Christ.
Thirty years ago he witnessed the ordination
of this book’s author and concelebrated
his first mass with him.
He died on the night that the first words
of this book were written.
The disbelief of Thomas has done more for our faith than the faith of the other disciples.
—St. Gregory the Great
By his wounds we have been healed.
—Isaiah 53:5
Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other by knocking on the wall. The wall is the thing which separates them but is also their means of communication. It is the same with us and God. Every separation is a link.
—Simone Weil
CONTENTS
Preface to the English-Language Edition
1 The Gate of the Wounded
2 Without Distance
3 Arcanum Cordis
4 A Torn Veil
5 A Dancing God
6 Worshipping the Lamb
7 Stigmata and Forgiveness
8 Knocking on the Wall
9 Bodies
10 A Little Place for Truth
11 Veronica and the Imprint of the Face
12 Wounds Transformed
13 The Last Beatitude
Notes
PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH-LANGUAGE EDITION
The central message of this book can be summed up in a few sentences. The painful wounds of our world are Christ’s wounds. If we ignore pain, poverty, and suffering in our world, if we turn a blind eye to them out of indifference or cowardice, if we are unwilling to acknowledge the injuries we inflict (including the injuries inflicted in our churches), and conceal them from others and ourselves with masks, cosmetics, or tranquilizing drugs, then we have no right to say to Christ, like Thomas the apostle when he touched Jesus’s wounds: “My Lord and my God.”
In the Gospels, the resurrected Jesus identifies himself with his wounds. They are the proof of his identity. The wounded Christ is the real, living Christ. He shows us his wounds and gives us the courage not to conceal our own: we are permitted our own wounds. Our faith may also be wounded by doubts. Wounded faith is more Christian, not less.
I am writing the preface to the English translation of my book at a time when the pandemic of a destructive disease is coming to a head on our planet. Every morning I have to reassure myself that I really am awake, that I haven’t moved from one dream to another or wandered into some sci-fi horror movie.
We’re part of a world full of wounds. For many people, the dark cloud of pain conceals the certainty of faith; the face of a benevolent God is hidden in the darkness that we are passing through together. But the Easter scene that inspired this book can speak to us with enormous urgency precisely at such a time. It is through Jesus’s wounds that the apostle Thomas sees God.

Let us not seek God in the storms and earthquakes. A God enthroned somewhere beyond the world, sending upon his children cruel punishments, the like of which would rightly land any parent in court, truly does not exist, thankfully. Atheists rightly maintain that such a god is simply a projection of our fears and desires. The vengeful god used by preachers, who trade on the world’s misfortunes to arouse fear and exploit it for their religious ends, is simply a product and servant of their own vindictiveness: they use it as a stick to beat people that they hate, and as a curse and punishment for what they themselves reject or fear. Their god of vengeance is simply a fictitious extension of their own malice and vindictiveness. When they brandish a God who punishes us with wars, natural disasters, and disease, they commit the sin of invoking God’s name in vain. They are replacing the father of Jesus with a bloodthirsty pagan idol that thrives on the blood of human sacrifice.
Like the prophet Elijah on Mount Horeb, we are more likely to find God in a quiet breeze—in the unaffected expressions of love and solidarity, and in everyday heroism generated in the dark hours of calamities. It is in those expressions of love and service, which restore our hope and the courage to live and not give up, that true holiness manifests itself. That is where God happens.
We can observe the wounds of this world in the way that Pilate observed the scourged Jesus: Ecce homo! Behold the man! Is this man covered in wounds, “without dignity, without beauty,” really a man still? The mob to which Pilate shows Christ, covered in wounds, is like a wild beast, incensed even more by the smell of blood: Crucify him!
But on the way to the Crucifixion Veronica emerges from the crowd. Jesus imprints the image of his face forever on the veil of compassion. Whoever wipes the sweat and blood from the wounds of our world may see and preserve the face of Christ. And whoever, like “doubting Thomas,” gazes from the gloom of doubts at the wounds on the body of our world and in the hearts of our neighbors may—precisely through that wounded humanity, through that image of the humanity that the Son of God took upon himself—see God. “I and the Father are one,” said the one who bore our wounds.
Scripture expresses the unity of the Father and the Son not in dogmatic definitions but in a dramatic story. That drama includes the moments of painful abandonment, as witness Jesus’s cry on the cross. Sometimes the time between the darkness of the cross and the dawn of Sunday morning is long and arduous. The present book seeks also to address those who are enduring such moments—and it is not intended to offer them “religious opium,” sweet-sounding clichés of cheap pious reassurance.
Let us not expect faith to provide the answers to every question. Instead we should derive from it the courage to step into the cloud of mystery and bear life’s many open questions and paradoxes. St. Paul tells us that here on earth we see only in part, as in a mirror, as in a riddle. Faith mustn’t stop seeking and questioning; it must not petrify into an ideology. It must not abandon its openness to an eschatological future.
As I write these lines I vividly recall the Easter of this tragic year: Easter with empty and often-locked churches, Easter without public religious services. But this Easter in particular made a profound impression on me.
For one thing it reminded me strikingly of those eleven years when I served “clandestinely” as a secretly ordained priest at the time of communist persecution. In those days I also celebrated Easter in private homes in a circle of my closest associates, at an ordinary table with no chasuble or golden chalice, no organ or incense.
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